Eunoia Beautiful Thinking
by thanksforthetea
Summary: All John Watson wanted was to forget about Sherlock.


**Title: **Eunoia (Beautiful Thinking)  
**Author:** sherlockmadetea  
**Beta:** nickelsandcoats  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Spoilers**: Everything up to, and including The Final Problem.  
**Word Count:** ~900 words  
**Pairings:** Sherlock/John  
**Warnings:** Suicidal ideation, depression, PTSD  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.  
**Summary:** All John Watson wanted was to forget about Sherlock.  
**Notes:** For withasideofcyanide, based on their prompt "Sherlock comes back to 221b and hugs a stunned John. Sherlock is saying "I'm not a dream, you're not crazy. I'm not dead, let's have dinner. Any rating." submitted for the johnlockchallenges gift exchange.

* * *

John Watson was slowly unpacking his things at 187 North Gower Street, making sure to place things in the proper spot before starting the same daunting process again. A sigh escaped his pursed lips, feeling somewhat relieved that he left Baker Street, leaving all the former memories of his former flatmate behind him.

He heard the familiar charm of his phone receiving an incoming text message. Placing down the last of his items from the box labeled 'Kitchen', the former army-doctor picked up his cane, and slowly walked towards his phone on the coffee table. Picking it up, he carefully read the text message:

Text Message  
6/16/2015 17:38  
From: Sherlock Holmes

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. – SH

John threw his phone down onto the coffee table, taking careful steps back before his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the chair. He went through countless hours of therapy, suffered dozens of panic attacks and had his PTSD resurface again shortly after the incident. Hell, he went to the hospital for several days because he had severe suicidal thoughts and one day just decided to stuck a gun in his mouth. He also took several different types of medication to help with everything from depression to anxiety. He did not need this, not after his therapist deemed him better.

It was not possible, absolutely not possible. He saw his friend die before his eyes. He checked all the vital signs. He was dead.

For the next several days, John received texts from "Sherlock":

Text Message  
6/16/2015 23:43  
From: Sherlock Holmes

I'm not a dream John. – SH

Text Message  
6/17/2015 10:08  
From: Sherlock Holmes

I had to do it John. – SH

Text Message  
6/18/2015 19:20  
From: Sherlock Holmes

I'm sorry John. – SH

The texts finally stopped coming. It was not until June 24th that John received another one:

Text Message  
6/24/2012 11:30  
From: Sherlock Holmes

Meet me at Baker Street tomorrow. Come if convenient. If inconvenient come anyway. – SH

After the last text, John picked up a soft blanket that was draped over the chair, curling it into himself. He shuffled his feet lethargically to his new bedroom, where he slowly sat down on the mattress, flopping over so his body was contorted into an uncomfortable position.

After several hours, John moved his legs and curled up into a fetal position, crying tearless sobs. He did not want this right now. He could have used this months, even years ago.

Thoughts ran through the army doctor's head. He craved to see Sherlock, craved to hear his melodic, velvety voice cry out his name. Craved for his delicate touch, craved for his bright, lively eyes to be alive again and looking at _him._

But another voice grew in John's mind. He was hurt, angry, disgusted with the consulting detective. Why the bloody hell did Sherlock leave John broken and alone like that? His heart grew colder as the years progressed, eventually sheltering himself completely from his friends and family, only going outside for work and therapy. He constantly told everyone that he was still staying at Baker Street because Mrs. Hudson liked the company, but in reality he still wanted to keep the image of Sherlock alive in his mind.

John wanted to see Sherlock though. Just hug him until the ends of the earth and cry into his shoulder, muttering if his best friend truly was alive or just a figment of his imagination. If this was truly Sherlock texting him, would he still be the same person that he was three years back? Would he still be considered a "consulting detective"? Running around to help solve crimes for Scotland Yard?

John was unable to sleep for several hours, running endless different scenarios in his head. Punching him, crying like a teenage girl, maybe having a quick shag. Close to the crack of dawn, his eyelids drooped, and the ex-army doctor fell asleep.

After work on June 25th, John walked along Baker Street, his umbrella curled up close to his smaller frame, with his cane holding him steady on his right side as he trotted down the street.

After knocking on the flat door and Mrs. Hudson greeting him, she took his things and told him to head upstairs to his old flat.

John slowly made his way up the steps, his PTSD showing again in his leg as he took one step at a time.

Finally he opened the door, noticing a figure sitting in the chair.

Sherlock's figure changed significantly. He was a lot thinner now, bones sticking out of his hollowed cheeks and fingers. The black locks were still present; however they were more unruly and unkempt. His blue eyes scanned the room before landing on John, a soft smile forming on his lips.

"I'm home, John."

The slender figure walked towards the door, his hand moving to John's tense jaw to stoke it, giving a soft indication that he was here and he was still Sherlock and he was _alive_.

John clenched Sherlock's shoulders, sobbing for what felt like hours rather than minutes. '_He's alive. He's alive. He's alive._' he thought.

"I'm so sorry John." Sherlock replied, stroking John's hair affectionately. He kept cooing him, telling John things like "I'm here." and "I won't ever leave again."

John finally laughed after a few minutes of silence. "You're a fucking prat, you know that right?"

"I know John, I know."


End file.
